


Finally

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, inability to deal with things, of the boys and mine, sorry everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's scars are revealed at a crime scene. For the exchangelock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Southpauz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southpauz/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. 
> 
>  
> 
> A.N. Dedicated to the great artist Southpauz, who gave me this wonderful prompt. I hope you enjoy it!!!

John is a goddamned pendulum. Once, there was Sherlock, and all was good in his life. Then, when the detective...left, John latched onto Mary. She made him feel alive again. Mary had the brilliant idea to shoot Sherlock, once he was back, and John was back at Baker Street (and really, that should have given him a hint of things to come). But Mary was Mary, and she was pregnant, and _Sherlock_ – of all people – twisted the facts to justify her, and who was John to resist all this? He went back to her. 

Until Moriarty was back, too, and Mary betrayed them in the worst way possible by going back to her old boss. With a note that said more or less, "Sorry but you must know how I feel, John. Can't stay apart from our respective madmen without falling apart. Don't worry about the baby. It's not yours anyway. ;-)" Which might or might not be true (everything is a lie with her), but she's already taken Alice with her and fled, and they can't reason with her.

During this round with Moriarty – which won't be their last one – they've seen no trace of her. There were snipers, of course, and John suspects one of them may or may not have been her, but honestly he doesn't want to know. At times he got the incongruous urge to wave amicably at the snipers, just in case she _was_ there, but he knows better than do so.

In the end, he's definitively back at Baker Street, intentioned fully to stay there until Sherlock kicks him out. Which, considering how well they work together, might very well be forever.

Life gets back to normal, with cases and mad experiments and being woken up by a screaming violin instead of a screaming baby like he still sometimes expects to be. John has prayed for this, in year pasts, and he got it now that he firmly believed it was forever behind him. The Hiatus – and this whole Mary débâcle – gets carefully forgotten, never to be mentioned again. Until that's not possible anymore.

It's June when Lestrade calls them in on the case of a half decapitated anthropologist in the museum of which he was curator. The weapon, not found on the crime scene, must clearly have been taken from one of the displays.

“We have a killer with a bloody scimitar somewhere. Sherlock, please,” the detective inspector groans. 

On the scene, the sleuth remarks, “Sloppy work, but not just because the killer wasn't familiar with the murder weapon. No, he was hasty. Maybe because he was interrupted. Then he'd have to flee, but he'd be noticed – especially since he took the weapon, or...aha!”

He snaps open a cupboard, and there is their scimitar-wielding, wild eyed killer springing from it like a jack in the box. There's chaos then, while the murderer swirls it around, while everyone surrounds him trying to make him see resistance is futile, though keeping a respectable distance from the blade. It's only finished when the other madman in the room slips under his guard to tackle him down. In the act, though, the blade whispers against his clothes, reducing them in tatters. Not that he minds.

A wide range of hisses, low whistles, Lestrade's heartfelt, “Christ!” and, above all, John's painful, ragged inhale echo together. Why? Oh. _Oh._ He'd almost...forgotten. No, not forgotten. Half deleted, half bolted away to the best of his ability – which is considerable – and not having to daily see the reminders, the state of his back was the last thing on his mind. 

Now everyone knows. Some might even think he's gotten his due – he knows he's hated. He doesn't care, but if they could just _stop staring_ it'd be appreciated.

Donovan is the first to wake up from the spell, and moves to relieve him of his prisoner, utterly professional. She barely glances at Sherlock, and only talks to their killer. The sleuth is grateful for it.

Next is Lestrade, offering him his own light jacket to cover himself with. (Sherlock doesn't want to care for that, but it will stop the stares. He misses his Belstaff, but today was really too hot to wear it.) The DI enquires evenly, “Are they behind bars?” No need to specify who.

“Some,” the sleuth replies with a shrug.

“If you want, we might work with Interpol for the others...” the policeman proposes. Geoff correctly placed how old how old the scars are and deduced when they must have occurred. Sherlock knew that there was hope for him as a detective yet. 

“Oh no. the others are dead,” the sleuth points out. He's surprised by Lestrade's fervent, “Good.” George didn't strike him as the bloodthirsty type. Then again, Sherlock didn't expect to be anyone's best friend, and if Lestrade told him he sees the arrogant sod like the son he's never had, he'd get the same uncomprehending stare John did. 

And Sherlock is stalling in conversation with Lestrade because he doesn't dare talk or even look at John, but he'll have to, sooner or later. The doctor seems to have found his breath and his bearings, because he quietly utters, “Sherlock...let's get home.” And for once it's the detective, uneasy, who trails quietly behind his companion. 

Once home, John declares, “We need to talk.” 

Sherlock plops down in his chair. “It's in the past. Can't we just...” and he mimes sweeping t all under the proverbial rug.

“No we can't. Especially when you don't just hid it from people. You aren't getting any therapy for that. It's not healthy.” John's voice is forcibly calm, but he's evidently still fraught with emotion.

“I had quite enough of shrinks in my childhood, thank you very much. They didn't understand me then, they wouldn't now. I don't care how trained they think they are,” the sleuth states, annoyed. Annoyance might just keep him afloat over the remembrance of his failings. Operative word being might here. 

“Fine. You don't want to talk about it, _I_ 'll talk about it. You've been tortured, Sherlock. And you've been hiding this from me. I need to know what happened to you,” John said. _I need to know how I failed you._

“I'm sure that you've already deduced some things, John. You're an army doctor, after all. Are you really sure that you want all the gory details? The who, how, how long, how many times? Really? Can't we just say that I wasn't playing hide and seek, and leave it at that?” Sherlock replies, challenging but tired. He doesn't want to have to deal with any of this.

John feels mildly nauseous hearing his own accusations of so long ago. Sherlock has been tortured _more than once_. While he was making sure John (and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade) were safe. It's happened for their bloody sake. And John couldn't stop it. Nor all-powerful Mycroft, apparently. 

“Maybe you're right,” he whispers. “Maybe I'm too much of a coward to hear out all the details without being sick. God knows your scars gave me a general idea. But I still need to know some things. At the very least when it happened.” _When I should have been there,_ he adds silently. 

“John, you don't want to know,” the sleuth utters very quietly. The doctor will blame himself if he knew, and Sherlock doesn't want that. He'll never want that.

“I do,” John replies with conviction.

Sherlock could refuse him an answer, but then things would sour between them all the same. Without a good choice, he opts (as always) for giving John what he wants, trying to soften the blow. “It was only thrice.”

 _Only...oh God Sherlock!_ the doctor thinks.

“Seven months in my absence, in Columbia. It was a misstep, but I managed to escape not much later. Then, at the sixteenth month, I purposefully let myself get caught by some people in Belgium. There was really no other way to trap them. And then, there was Serbia. Mycroft had to extract me from there. So shameful,” Sherlock reveals, without telling much at all. Not how long each lasted, not what they did. He doesn't want to have to relive any of that.

“When was Serbia?” John queries evenly. 

Just the question Sherlock was dreading. He might lie, certainly, and John would probably not notice it. But what if he does? The last thing he needs is trusting Sherlock even less. So, really no choice. “Mycroft brought me home,” Sherlock discloses in a small voice.

John blinks to escape the nightmare. Hopes fervently that he's suddenly developed auditory hallucinations. Because the implications are too horrible to face. “I've attacked you _and you let me_ when you'd just been tortured?” he forces himself to say in the end, almost shouting. 

How can he have been so blind to Sherlock's pain? What sort of doctor – of friend – hell, of man that makes him? Please no. please say Mycroft kept him from contacting his idiot best friend for weeks. Months. Long enough to heal, at any rate. Then again, when could Mycroft ever dictate Sherlock's behaviour? 

“I deserved it,” Sherlock utters calmly.

“No!” John yells back in shock. Then, more quietly, he adds, “No, you didn't. No one would, and especially not you.”

“Honestly, John, it wasn't that bad. It hurt worse when you weren't speaking to me. I'd take your beatings any day,” the detective confesses softly. Maybe he shouldn't admit it, but he hopes that it will make John feel better about it. But he probably fails, because John reacts with a strangled, disbelieving sound. 

“Don't say that,” the doctor pleads. “Nothing of this should have happened. Not my absolutely uncalled for reaction, and neither these...instances when you were away. I should have been there to protect you. And _I would have_. A word, a _blink_ was all I needed. That I've _hurt you_ instead is...abominable”.

“It wasn't that bad, John. Let it go. You've done so little damage, and instead helped me so much. Even while I was captured. Knowing you were safe and wanted me back home was all I needed to endure it all. Which is the reason why I _couldn't_ bring you along. If you'd been there...if they'd caught you too they'd break me in no time at all. Above anything else I need you safe, John. That's why I do everything I do.” 

Sherlock is admitting too much, but he can't seem to shut up now. He'll make John uneasy, sad, or both. He's horrible. And God forbid that he let accidentally out the biggest, scariest truth of them all. He'd lose John, and that would kill him. 

“That's really true, isn't it? It's a long time that you keep protecting me and being punished for it. The Magnussen affair, too. It might have ended much worse. I swear, it was the first time that I was grateful to Jim bloody Moriarty, if only for a moment. I've just caused problems for you, haven't I? You'd be better off if you'd never met me,” the doctor mutters self-deprecatingly. 

“Don't you dare think like that, John,” Sherlock replies fervently. “I'd be dead many times over if I had not met you. And not just that. I'd have died less than a human. Maybe I really was a machine back then. Or at least I tried valiantly to be. You made me better, John. Surely you must know that.” 

“No idiot, you never were,” John replies, shaking his head with fondness. Sherlock can be incredibly blind at times. “You have no idea how harshly I regretted ever uttering that stupid word.” _How many times I wondered if I'd pushed you into it with that lone word. Thank God that you never were._ “You've always been this really amazing human being who saved me from the start, and then for some reason just continued to, over and over. And I have no idea what I've done to deserve having you in my life, but I must have been sort of a saint in my past life to get such a splendid karma.” John smiles weakly. Hopefully the joke won't make the statement any less heartfelt. Sherlock will understand, won't he? 

“You still are sort of a saint, John. After all, you haven't forsaken me yet,” the sleuth counters without laughing. 

“As if I ever _could_ ,” the doctor chokes out. “You're the most important person in my life, Sherlock.”

“For now,” the detective agrees. He tries to keep the sadness and bitterness out of his voice. He really tries.

But the failure with Mary won't make John stop dating, and sooner or later he'll find someone else that he'll utterly fall in love with. And if Sherlock's lucky, this one will finish what Mary couldn't and he'll be dead and won't have to see John leaving him once again. Sherlock _hates_ having feelings.

“No, not just for now,” John rebukes. “What we have isn't a fleeting thing. It wouldn't have survived your first string of experiments if it was.” He grins. “I still don't believe that a ridiculous man like me could be important – the most important, even – to you for any considerable length of time,” the sleuth confesses. He's only recently been upgraded to best friend, and he'll undoubtedly do something to jeopardize even that in the long run.

“Trying not to get offended by your disbelief here. Sherlock, why would you be convinced that I love you any less than you do?”

 _Because you do. Because I won't ever love anyone else in my life and you're my everything and I told you too much today already and_...He thought it was all still in his head, but somehow a sentence slips out, “Because I love you until it hurts.” 

“You _what_?” John croaks.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock blurts out. _Please don't get disgusted. Please don't get angry. Please please please please don't go away._

“You're not taking the piss are you?You do,” the doctor whispers, not a little shocked. Of course he does, Sherlock never apologizes, he wouldn't joke about this. “Sherlock, I...”

“Don't say it,” the detective cuts in. He can't bear John's rejection right now. Not out loud. “I already know, and I'm not...I don't ask anything, just...” _Stay_. His voice whithers away dejectedly before he can beg for it. Why does he talk at all? His mouth only ever got him in trouble. 

“Sorry but I won't shut up now,” John declares firmly. “I don't ever want to cause you pain, Sherlock. Even if it seems that I've done nothing else lately. I don't _ever_ want you hurt because of me.” 

“Believe me, I've _tried_ , John. But I don't seem to be able to love you any less,” Sherlock whispers, defeated.

“Well, of course. You've gone about it the entirely wrong way. Which is, before you ask, alone,” John offers with a soft smile.

Can he really change Sherlock's feelings for him? The detective doesn't think it's possible. For all the hurt they've caused him, he isn't even sure to want them gone.

“When you're hurt in any way, shape or form you defer to your doctor immediately, Sherlock. That would be me, by the way. Hello,” John jokes, gently teasing but all too serious in truth. The sleuth grins weakly back at him. “And the best remedy for your symptoms is requited feelings. I promise it'll stop hurting.” Only that is simply impossible. Why is John mocking him? He wasn't so cruel before. 

Then the world makes no sense anymore, because John is kissing him. On the lips. With infinite gentleness. Sherlock gasps into it, and John deepens the kiss. It's slow, explorative, sensuous, and as much as he'd like to continue forever, Sherlock forces himself to shove his doctor away. He receives a kind, puzzled look. “Don't play with me. Just...don't,” he wheezes. He can't take it. Not if it's pity, and it can't be anything else. 

“Fine, Sherlock,” John agrees. The sleuth's heart breaks. “Evidently I've not been clear enough, so my fault. I'm sorry. I'll explain. Your feelings are very much required. _I love you._ Now can we resume kissing?”

“You _can't_ love me. Don't lie,” the detective grits out. 

“Someone once said that I was a horrible liar. I'm not lying, Sherlock. What makes you think so?” _Where did I go wrong? Why you don't believe that we can be happy?_

“I'm not lovable in any way, shape or form, John. I'm well aware of that. And you're not gay,” Sherlock utters tiredly. 

“First of all, you don't say bad things about yourself or I'll get offended that you're slandering my love. Of course you're lovable, Sherlock. Whoever told you such an idiocy? You're amazing and wonderful and I love you down to every last quirk. And if I get mad sometimes it doesn't mean that I don't love you. It means that you've scared me, or just – sometimes – that I feel in danger of being deleted. And about my not gay declarations...still not liking men as a general rule. But I'd need only a nod from you to become Holmessexual for the rest of my life.”

“Sherlocksexual. I don't want you shagging Mycroft,” the detective protests automatically, making a face.

“Neither do I, don't worry.” John grins at him. “I wouldn't dare to come between Mycroft and his umbrella anyway.” 

“John!” Sherlock exclaims, but then they both start to giggle uncontrollably.

When they found their breaths, John asks, “Better? Do we agree that we love each other very much now? Can we maybe try kissing again if you'd like? Or not. Whatever you want, Sherlock, really. I just want you to be happy. You have to believe this, even if you don't believe anything else.”

“It seems so unbelievable that I might need a bit more convincing still. But if you really want to, you're welcome to convey your feelings by kissing. Now or at any other times,” Sherlock mumbles, blushing. He will let himself be happy. For as long as it lasts.

John's lips find his, and it's glorious. And sweet and loving and _healing_. Sherlock's hands come up and, instead of shoving away, hold him closer. Still not enough. But melding together is physically impossible, isn't it?

The kiss ends only when they're completely breathless. (But what a way to go it would be, kissing to their reciprocal death. No, impossible. They'd pass out before that.) John tugs them both to the sofa for a good cuddle, and the detective nuzzles him. He can, now. John is not going to be uneasy, or annoyed. “John,” he whispers, “I need a promise from you.”

“Anything, Sherlock,” the doctor replies softly.

“I know that you love me now,” (he wants to believe that; _John_ wants him to believe it) “but...when you stop...” 

The when instead of if breaks John's heart all over again. He reflexively hugs Sherlock tighter.

“When you do, don't...please don't leave me John. I'd really rather you kill me. I'll talk to Mycroft about it, so he won't bother you when you do. I promise,” the sleuth concludes fervently.

John might spout declarations of eternal love now, but Sherlock is clearly still too insecure to trust them. So instead he says, “On one condition.”

“Anything, John,” Sherlock murmurs against John's chest.

“Your life is mine. Which means that, unless I murder you, you stay alive. No being careless and getting killed by any criminal, genius or otherwise,” the doctor declares.

“Fine, John.” If Sherlock keeps to his part of the accord, he'll live well past one hundred. As it should very well be.

“Good,” John replies vehemently. “But Sherlock, it seems to me that you're still gloomy. Anything at all I can do to help? I really want you happy.” 

“You already love me, John. I don't think I can ask anything more. It's just...it takes a while getting used to it.”

“Do you think it might help if I repeat it? I know you usually don't like that, but I'm hoping this could be the exception. I love you. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, you absolutely amazing creature,” the doctor reiterates, all the warmth of his affection in his voice.

The detective blushes at that. And then, impulsively, dives for another quick kiss.

“I love when you take the initiative. I love kissing you. I'd love you kiss every inch of your gorgeous body,” John continues after it ends, without missing a beat. 

“Every?” Sherlock echoes, hesitant.

“Obviously,” John assures with a grin at stealing his love's catchphrase. 

“Even my back?” Sherlock's voice is entirely too small and insecure for John's liking.

The thought is sobering, yes, but he replies immediately and fervently, “ _Especially_ your back. There is a whole lot to kiss better there.”

“What?” Sherlock counters incredulously. 

_He knows what that means, doesn't he? It'd be too sad otherwise,_ John wonders quickly. He replies, “Of course. You've kept me from doing my job there, so it's the only thing I can do, and I'm still sorry for that. But I think that you'll find out that it's surprisingly effective. It's not up to debate _if_ I'll do it, Sherlock. The only question here is, when?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. ...And this is the reason I don't write action scenes. I know I failed there. And yes, I chickened out of the M rating, but I could add another chapter with it if there's request for it (especially yours, Southpauz, the story is for you!). I just felt too unsure about my porn writing skills to offer it confidently when it might even be unwanted. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
> A.N. This story has had the most success out of all my works. Your response has been so positive that I've been quite overwhelmed by it. I'm so happy that I have no adequate words to thank you all for your kindness. I just hope that you enjoy this little ending (and if not, please let's all pretend this stayed an one-shot). Again, thank you. So very much. :-)

It isn't the first time the two love birds will have sex. The first actual time was after a successful case, with Sherlock high on adrenaline and John's praise. He does have a bit of a praise kink; but to be honest, only John's. His compliments are special (you'd develop praise kink too, subjected to it). In that moment, every speck of shyness and uncertainty had crumbled away, and the glorious tradition of celebratory sex has been born. Both couldn't be happier.

But John has a fantasy he's nursed from the start: taking Sherlock apart with sweetness (and a remarkable oral fixation, too). Though, naturally, there's been a whole lot of kissing going on since they've admitted their feelings, John still dreams of kissing all of Sherlock in one sitting, not letting himself be distracted by his lover's demands to “cease foreplay this instant.” It's happened before; Sherlock can be very bossy when he's horny – and not only then, of course.

So, when Sherlock offers to enact anything from John's fantasies repertoire for his lover's birthday – and the doctor is still wondering about where he found the idea in the first place, though very happy about it – John knows what to ask.

He surprises Sherlock minutely. The sleuth had expected something more...adventurous, to be honest (been afraid that John might have gotten _bored_ with their regular sex), but he0s not about to deny John anything. It will be an exercise in patience, more than anything else, he thinks. He can be patient for John. The once. And maybe this will convince John to dress up in his old uniform for _Sherlock_ 's birthday.

Which has brought them together on the bed, with Sherlock splayed like a feast for John's enjoyment....and John. Kissing. His. Forehead. Without being paternal at all, too, as this would surely feel if it was done by anyone else. (Though Mycroft has teased him about falling for someone similar to his dad like common people were wont to do.) The stray thought makes Sherlock furrow his brow, which John smooths (with another kiss, obviously) saying, “Don't think too much, love.” As always, the endearment makes Sherlock's heart swell, and he wishes that John wouldn't stop to pay attention to his too-prominent cheeckbones, because he wants a proper snog. So he can show John how very much he loves him, too. He soon gets it. A fiery kiss which leaves the detective completely breathless.

Then, John starts working on a glorious hickey on Sherlock's neck – next to his pulse point – and the sleuth moans deeply. His cock strains, too, getting definitely interested in the proceedings. He'll always be weak against John's seduction – they haven't done almost anything, and Sherlock already wants. The detective wonders idly how he'd manage to wait until John had his fill of his skin.

That, leaving his neck with a last lick to a delicious collarbone, John moves to his hands, to kiss his knuckles and and suck teasingly Sherlock's deft musician fingers, doesn't help the detective any to find his patience. He needs John. And they aren't even midway. Sherlock will decidedly go mad. And John knows – he has to know, since he's kissing the sleuth's racing pulse, and he only smiles a little smug smile that should irk Sherlock to no end but that the detective finds utterly sexy instead. He's doomed.

With a quick kiss inside his left elbow, John moves to Sherlock's chest. He kisses reverently Sherlock's heart and pecks an apology to the way-too-near scar, keeping up the steady stream of endearments and “love you”s and praises he's been murmuring between each kiss. He sucks his lover's nipples to hardness and mouths that spot on his flank that never fails to make Sherlock moan.

John suckles Sherlock's navel and then pepper little kisses along his lover's linea alba, but when he encounters the straining cock he ignores it and moves laterally to suck another hickey on a prominent hipbone, despite Sherlock's hoarse pleading and protests.

Then, with a last, gentle, teasing blow of air over the hard cock, John scoots down Sherlock's impossibly long legs to kiss the arch of his feet and suckle at his toes.

“John! Don't you dare!” Sherlock groans.

“I thought that I could do anything to you today, love,” is the reply.

Sherlock nods tightly in defeat.

“It's not my fault that you're so positively delectable all flushed and needy like this, Lockie,” the doctor remarks with a wolfish grin.

“But you're hard, too. Don't you want to make love to me?” the sleuth cajoles, though his voice is quite whiny.

“Of course love, and I'm going to, I promise. Just not too soon. Can't cut the fun short,” John counters, depositing a kiss on each of Sherlock's ankles and then going back up legs trembling with sheer desire, peppering a theory of tiny kisses until he's licking at Sherlock's inner thighs.

Sherlock's desperate moans are the single most erotic sound in the universe. He's stopped expecting John to take pity on him, so when finally his partner dives for a long, powerful, tongue-swirling suck at his neglected cock, the detective lets out a strangled sound, part pleasure and part – big part – surprise. John bobs his head a few times, and just when the sleuth thinks that maybe this sweet, sweet torment will end, he lets up.

The broken, “John!” that rips from Sherlock's throat is half plea, half scolding and all liquid desire.

“We're half way, love,” the blond points out gently.

Sherlock doesn't think that he can survive just as much teasing. His heart will probably give way long before. But this is what John wants, so he's going to comply. He mumbles indistinctly something about evil doctors being the absolute worst, though.

It makes John only chuckle – a sound that somehow manages to redouble the want inside Sherlock, physically impossible as it should be – and murmur, “Patience. It'll be good, I promise.”

It is already good – in a you drive me out of my mind sort of way – so Sherlock cuts shorts his protests and turns around, like John nods to him to do.

The kiss behind his ear makes him shiver, like always, but what comes next scares him a bit. It's not the first time he's been kissed better, either, and when John does so he's always very determined not to miss a single one of his scars, no matter how impatient Sherlock gets (even if he secretly loves it). This time too it's not different, without a care for how hot and bothered the detective already is. One scar, one kiss, one murmured superlative. And repeat.

Sherlock used to see them as the proof of his failings, his idiocy or if he was particularly hard on himself, a just account for what he should suffer for hurting John. John's love changed them into proof of victories. Evidence that nothing in the world can successfully separate the two of them. That (maudlin as it sounds) love does conquer all. Their love at least.

And if John's breath hitches each time, choked with the knowledge that he _wasn't there_ to protect Sherlock, the sheer fact that he can do this – that the detective is naked and needy and very, very alive under him – is enough to move him forward from the dark imageries in his mind to more pressing concerns, like how many times and in how many ways can he get Sherlock to moan his name. Not that he's counting. (Sherlock was honest with Irene. He doesn't beg for mercy. It doesn't mean that, sometimes, John's name does not turn into a prayer – and they both know it.)

When John is finally done with Sherlock's back... he scoots down again. To kiss calves trembling with desire and the sensitive back of his knees. He'll never ever make love to Sherlock anymore. Only tease him further and further until he'll lose his sanity, never to be recovered. Sherlock is sure of that by now.

Still, the tentative lick at his hole surprises him so much that Sherlock yelps. “Oh God, John,” he moans then – the two terms equivalent in his mind. John must know it, because Sherlock feels his partner smile against him.

Only a few more teasing licks and one playful nip later, John is finally preparing him with his fingers, thank God. It starts looking like he'll keep his promise and fuck Sherlock right into unconsciousness. The detective tries to tell him to hurry up, even knowing his doctor would never risk hurting him by being rushed in this stage.

When John does take him, his thrusts are slow and powerful and unerringly aimed at Sherlock's prostate, bless him. The pleasure is simply overwhelming – hell, it's been overwhelming since the start – and Sherlock can only gasp his lover's name brokenly. It's the only thing that hasn't fled his mind.

When the detective comes, with a shout, he promptly passes out afterwards from the sheer intensity of it. John really didn't expect it. Still reeling from his own orgasm – simultaneous with Sherlock's – he moves to check up on his lover. It's apparent that the sleuth is perfectly fine, luckily, if totally out of commission.

Such a thing had never happened to John – not with anyone – and he isn't sure if he should be infinitely smug about what has happened or more than a bit bashful for pushing Sherlock too hard. The sleuth appears to have gone smoothly from passed out to asleep. Hopefully when he wakes up John will have had time to decide about his feelings.


	3. Chapter 3

So sorry, not a proper update, but just a warning that Sherlock's wish to have John in uniform for his birthday took the shape of a story of its own (because Tumblr challenges). If you want to read it, please check my 'Better than fantasy'. And - hopefully - enjoy! ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. ...And this is the reason I don't write action scenes. I know I failed there. And yes, I chickened out of the M rating, but I could add another chapter with it if there's request for it (especially yours, Southpauz, the story is for you!). I just felt too unsure about my porn writing skills to offer it confidently when it might even be unwanted. Thanks for reading.


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